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Page 14
"What a painfully ridiculous figure!" exclaimed Barbara, who had been
silently absorbed in study. "It is painful because every line looks as
if the artist had done his very best, and that is so utterly bad. It
means absolutely nothing."
"You have fathomed the woful secret," replied Mr. Sumner. "It shows no
evidence of the slightest thought. Only a man's _fingers_ produced this.
All power of originality had become lost; all desire for it was
unknown."
"Then, how did things ever get better?" asked Malcom.
"An interesting question. I wish you all would read some before I tell
you any more. Find something, please, that treats of the beginnings of
Christian art in the Catacombs of Rome. Read about the manuscript
illuminations produced by monks of the tenth and eleventh centuries,
which are to be found in some great libraries. In these we find the best
art of that time,"
[Illustration: ACADEMY, FLORENCE.
BYZANTINE MAGDALEN.]
"If you find anything about Cimabue and Giotto," he added, "you would
better read that also, for the work of these old painters will be the
subject of our next lesson. For it, we will go to the church Santa Maria
Novella."
"And Santa Croce?" asked Barbara, more timidly than was her wont.
"And Santa Croce too," smilingly added Mr. Sumner.
"And now, Malcom, if you can find a wide carriage, we all will drive for
an hour before going home."
Chapter IV.
A New Friend Appears.
_The first sound in the song of love
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound.
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,
And play the prelude of our fate._
--LONGFELLOW.
[Illustration: DUOMO AND CAMPANILE. FLORENCE.]
One day Malcom met an old fellow-student. Coming home, he told his
mother of him, and asked permission to bring him for introduction.
"His name is Howard Sinclair. I did not know him very well in the
school, for he was some way ahead of me. He is now in Harvard College.
But his lungs are very weak; and last winter the doctors sent him to
Egypt, and told him he must stay for at least two years in the warmer
countries. He is lonely and pretty blue, I judge; was glad enough to see
me."
"Poor boy! Yes, bring him here, and I will talk with him. Perhaps we can
make it more pleasant for him. You are sure his character is beyond
question, Malcom?"
"I think so. He has lots of money, and is inclined to spend it freely,
but I know he was called a pretty fine fellow in the school, though not
very well known by many. He is rather 'toney,' you know,--held his head
too high for common fellows. The teachers especially liked him; for he
is awfully bright, and took honors right along."
The next day Malcom brought his friend to his mother, whose heart he won
at once by his evident delicate health, his gentlemanly manners, and,
perhaps most of all, because he had been an orphan for years, and was so
much alone in the world. She decided to welcome him to her home, and to
give him the companionship of her young people.
Howard Sinclair was a young man of brilliant intellectual promise. He
had inherited most keen sensibilities, an almost morbid delicacy of
thought, a variable disposition, and a frail body. Both father and
mother died before he was ten years of age, leaving a large fortune for
him, their only child; and, since then, his home had been with an aged
grandmother. Without any young companions in the home, and lacking
desire for activity, he had given himself up to an almost wholly
sedentary life. The body, so delicate by nature, had always been made
secondary to the alert mind. His luxurious tastes could all be
gratified, and thus far he had lived like some conservatory plant.
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